I suddenly open my eyes and realize I am lying directly under a scorching sun. The light burns so harshly that I can barely squint; tears sting and run down my face, and at first, I cannot even move. My chest heaves, my breath shallow, every muscle stiff as if I have been lying here for centuries. Confusion wraps around me like chains.
I try to understand what is happening—my body feels different, the world feels different. Slowly my eyes adjust to the brightness, and I lift my hands to block the sun. My hands… they feel strange. The shape of my fingers, the hardness of my nails—they don't belong to me. My arms tense with a strength that is not familiar. My skin catches the sunlight, bare and vulnerable, but its tone is lighter than I remember. For a moment, I don't recognize my own face in my mind.
I push myself onto my stomach with effort; my head spins, my mouth is dry, my knees tremble. I feel exhausted, thirsty, starving. Turning my head to the side, I see a barren, endless plain—stony ground stretching far, with small caves on the horizon, naked earth and dry grass. A sob escapes me—because the last thing I remember is that alley, the fight, the knife… the cold grip of death. And now I am here. Is this a hospital? A dream? Heaven? Hell? My thoughts scatter in every direction, and I fight to bring them back.
When I try to stand, my legs betray me, buckling at first. I fall back to my knees, dirt clinging to my skin. My throat tightens with panic, and for a moment I think I might cry out loud like a child. I don't belong here. I shouldn't be here. The memory of dying is too fresh, the pain of the knife too sharp. I expect to wake up in a bed, to see white hospital walls—but the only thing surrounding me is emptiness.
Still, I force myself up again, trembling. Each step is unsteady, but with every movement I notice something unsettling: my muscles respond with precision, with raw power. They feel too steady for a body so dehydrated and weak. My feet dig into the ground like roots, broad and sure. My palms carry hardened calluses—hands built for survival. A chill runs through me, not of weakness, but of realization: this is not my body.
The greatest shock comes when I dare to look lower. After inspecting my legs and chest, my gaze drops. My penis—it is larger, veined, a proud sign of virility I never had before. My heart skips. This is not me. It cannot be. And yet the weight, the pulse, the sheer presence of it convinces me it is real. The shame of staring at myself mixes with a dark pride. Whoever this body belonged to, it was made for dominance, for survival, for desire.
I stagger forward, searching desperately for water. My tongue sticks to the roof of my mouth, my throat burns. In the distance, I see a cactus-like plant and drag myself toward it. Every step is clumsy, driven more by instinct than control. My new muscles feel powerful, but my mind hasn't caught up. I don't stride like a warrior; I stumble like a lost man. Reaching the plant, I remember—faint echoes of documentaries, scraps of knowledge. With a stick, I strike the cactus again and again. At first, nothing happens. I growl in frustration, almost give up, then finally the skin splits. Bitter water trickles out. I drink greedily, choking, spilling it down my chin, but I don't care. Each drop revives me, steadying my breath, slowing my frantic heartbeat.
I collapse onto the ground, gasping. My mind swirls. I don't understand. Am I dreaming? Am I punished? Or am I gifted a chance I never earned? The questions whirl like storms, and I have no answers. The more I think, the heavier my head grows. My hands tremble, not from weakness but from disbelief.
Time passes before I rise again. My steps are less clumsy now, but the fear lingers. I am cautious, every sound making me flinch. When I hear voices in the distance, my breath catches. At first, I think they are animals, but no—they are human. The sound is rough, guttural, unfamiliar, yet undeniably human.
I creep closer to the caves, hiding behind rocks. And then I see them. Figures moving in the firelight. Primitive clothes, skins draped across rough frames, hair tangled, bodies hardened by survival. My heart races, and a shiver of fear runs through me. They are people, yet not like any I have known.
I cannot approach. Not yet. I stay hidden, crouched in the shadows, trembling not only from fear but from the enormity of it all. My mind reels. How did I come here? How do I survive this place? They are strangers, dangerous, and I am alone.
Yet even in my fear, I cannot ignore what my eyes notice. Women. There are many, each different, each radiating a raw, primal allure. Their movements are unrefined but hypnotic. Desire stirs in me, sharp and heavy. But I do not let it fix on one—I cannot. Instead, a darker thought forms: what if they could all be mine? The idea is too vast, too impossible, and yet it clings to me, burning into my chest.
The night deepens. I watch them from afar, unmoving. My body urges me to act, to approach, but my mind restrains me. I need to understand their order, their patterns, their weaknesses. For hours I stay awake, my eyes fixed on them, my body aching from stillness but my mind burning with thought.
At last, as smoke drifts from their fire into the night sky, a truth takes shape inside me. Either I am lost in an endless dream, or I have been reborn with a second chance. My senses carry fragments of both lives: knowledge from the modern world, instincts from this primitive one. And somewhere deep inside, I feel another presence—memories that are not mine, whispers of a man called Karo. The fusion of us both is not yet clear, but I sense its danger, its promise.
I am not ready to accept it. Not yet. Confusion still weighs on me, fear still presses against my ribs. But even through that haze, one certainty forms like a flame: this world can belong to me. All of it. All of them.